


let us live (let us love)

by unhookingstarswithoutpermission



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: A little angst, Anxiety Attacks, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smut, Victor's POV, for the most part it's just fluff i promise, idk - Freeform, just like me, this is a mess, up to ep 9 at least, written in 3rd person tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 06:50:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8738935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhookingstarswithoutpermission/pseuds/unhookingstarswithoutpermission
Summary: Victor considers ice language his native tongue, and it's like he hears the words being whispered over and over, making his body tremble even if what he has in mind is nothing more than a mere echo of Yuuri's voice. He's running, and he just knows that Yuuri will be there to meet him. Yuuri is always there, smiling sure and firm, and it makes Victor's blood boil in his veins. It makes him so in love he can't think straight. So Victor launches himself at him, going in for a kiss, and their lips brush and fit together so perfectly that if they weren't on international TV, if they weren't already falling on the ice, he would probably never part from him. But he has to, so he hides his blushing face in the crook of his necks. When he pulls back, Yuuri's eyes are so fond that they feel like a promise.  or, the way Victor Nikiforov grows after he intrudes the life of one Yuuri Katsuki.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This anime has just destroyed and saved my life at the same time. I'm in love, guys. I'm so in love I chose to burden all my favourite characters with my personal problems. That's why this was born. And also because I love my gay Russian son, my bi Japanese son and my non binary Russian child.  
> The title is taken from the first words of Catullus Carmen 5, because I love it and because it somehow fits the story, idk. Hope you enjoy!

 

 _vivamus mea Lesbia, atque amemus,_  
_rumoresque senum severiorum_  
_omnes unius aestimemus assis!_  
_(let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,_  
_and let us judge all the rumors of the old men_  
_to be worth just one penny!)_

 

Victor remembers his mother in bits and pieces. Few things are engraved in his memory: her gentle touch when she would comb his hair, her sparkling eyes when he would come home after a successful competition. Now that it's been years since she last saw one of his performances, Victor knows he has somehow always skated for her: he also knows he shouldn't have, that he should skate for himself and himself only. There are exceptions to the rules, though, and Victor buries his first gold medal along with her body.

After he's left with his father, everything changes. He still thanks whatever deity may exist that he was already of age then: he managed to put up with barely a year of his father's bullshit before he broke. His father would say, every day, as soon as he'd come back home from his training, bruised and exhausted, that _it's a shame for a man to embrace every kind of feminine trait_ ; so Victor cut his hair short and asked Yakov to perform forceful, manly tracks that didn't fit well at all with his graceful disposition. But even then it wasn't enough: his father demanded more and more from a barely eighteen year old kid who was already winning everything he could win, and Victor reacted by doing nothing short of literally running away from home. He sought refuge in the only place he still felt like calling home, his skating rink. That was where Yakov had found him, broken and angry, freezing on the ice.

Victor is well aware that Yakov doesn't do softness: he's strict, relentless, always pushing him to do better. Most of the time he's cold as Russian winter, and Victor is grateful for that. But Yakov is kind. He takes him in and that very night, with the harsh force of an overflowing river, Victor spills everything: he's already reached the bottom of his life, so why shouldn't he begin to dig?

He expects the same reaction he got from his father: broken plates, shouts of hate and promises of bruises. It isn't what he gets: Yakov is calm throughout their whole interaction, a firm certainty supporting an increasingly drunk Victor. When he's finished speaking and his throat is so raw he couldn't go on even if he wanted, he looks at him with an indefinite expression in his eyes. Yakov says that it's okay; he is okay, he's allowed to hate his asshole of a father, he's allowed to feel certain things, no matter what Russian society tells him. Victor gets very close to tears: before they can spill Yakov calls it a night, gives him the guest room and then the first and last hug they've ever exchanged.

He tells Victor that he should be proud of himself, because he's become a winner despite everything else.

 

* * *

 

One thing Victor is grateful for is that he is allowed _everything_ while he's on the ice. He can be whoever he wants to be. Yakov lets him choose the music, the theme, even the choreography from time to time: he only demands that he excels at whatever he does, but he knows better than to put a limit to Victor's inspiration.

Victor is amazed by how much he can move people, every time. Of course, he likes it: he loves having such power over millions of souls, knowing how to make them bend and break under each and every one of his deliberate movements. That's why the tracks that speak of masculinity and power don't mix well with him: he has no need to reiterate just how attractive he can be, how he can make women _and_ men fall at his feet with a wink. He knows that, and he knows that the audience knows, because they see how he acts when he's off the ice.

What he decides to bring (and to leave) on the ice is something completely different: he lets out his secrets, everything he will never put into words but he can't ever escape from. He hides pieces of himself in every graceful push from the ice, in every fragment of his body, from the hair he can no longer pull up in a ponytail to the curve of his wrist.

Sometimes he thinks that, were someone to understand, they could either helplessly fall in love with him or despise everything he is.

 

* * *

 

He feels that something is wrong when, for the first time in his life, he gets off the ice without feeling the overwhelming want of getting back there and never leave, freezing hands, bleeding feet and all. He doesn't get that indescribable trill of electricity that warms up his body and soothes his aching muscles; there's only fatigue waiting for him at the kiss and cry, and Victor feels terrorized. He's become quite the actor after all the years spent under the spotlight: he keeps it all in, accepting the gold medal with the most graceful smile he can muster, charming the journalists and dodging Yakov's inquisitive questions. He locks his fear away and lets himself feel, subjects his thoughts to his senses: if he can't touch, ear or see it it is not worth of his attention, not until he's alone, at least.

They get back to the hotel they're staying at late into the night: he's been out with the skaters on the podium and their coaches, he's drunk at least his own body weight in vodka (“This is not vodka, Vitya, this is flavoured water”, Yakov has said at some point of the night) and he feels so _tired_. He doesn't even wash away the product from his hair: he just scrubs at his running make up and crawls his way into the sheets. The bed is soft, comfortable in the warm American night: Russia at this time of the year is harsh and cold, and Victor loves it, yet he also loves seeing a whole unknown city sparkling from lights and foreign words.

Everything is slow and quiet, so still he feels his own breath coming out in uneven puffs, and suddenly everything comes rushing at him. He's old, his career is almost at the end: no matter how many times he's told Yakov he will be the oldest skater of all times, this night was just the proof that everything will soon be over, and he needs to accept it and let this part of his life go. He should be proud. He's the oldest gold medallist ever, his body still takes the jumps and the spins without hurting too badly; he would make an excellent instructor, even a coach, in his own time. He grips at the stark sheets, hears them rip from how hard he's clenching his fingers: he doesn't want to leave.

He knows, he just does, that there's still _something_ in him: he has to leave, but not like _this_. When skating became his only reason to live, all those years ago, he had told himself he didn't want to have a fleeting decade of successes and then end up in the gallery of old stars. He wanted to leave a sign, to create something so new and unique that people would still remember it, and by extent remember _him_ , even after centuries.

If he was sane, he would recognize his inability to be surprised and to surprise as the turning point of everything. He should retire; he should help Yakov with whatever boy is going to become the next Russian top skater. It would be the perfect triumphal ending of an irreprehensible career.

But Victor has always wanted to make history, and that does not sound like it at all.

 

* * *

 

At first, just after he's watched the first performance that's been able to amaze him in ages, even without music under it and scenes and costumes, he thinks that this is his opportunity. He wants to make a point: that skating should not be valued on how perfect one's movements are, but on how much of one's soul shines through the performance. The barely known Japanese skater of the video seems the perfect person: his moves are sloppy at best, but he's able to perform Victor's own choreography in a completely different way, that says so much more than he's been able to say at the last Grand Prix.

So Victor books a plane and leaves, making his whole gym believe that he's gone to Japan in the folly of a moment, so that they'll just say that he has always been one of a kind, that the only weird thing is that he hasn't done something like this sooner. He isn't sure if he will fool Yakov, and he knows he hasn't when his coach (former coach) calls him and orders him to get back, stop being a child and succeed in the most possible, normal way. Victor doesn't listen: he's already thought this through, and he's aware that he will never be able to just stand there and watch himself inevitably decline.

He likes Japan as soon as he lands in Tokyo: it's wonderful, such a diverse and new culture is exactly what he needed. Hasetsu is even more singular. The little city has something of picturesque to it, so different from the decadence of the Moscow's suburbs where he grew up. His new skater's family welcomes him with a warmth he's never experienced, especially coming from a family, and his plan seems flawless and oh so smart.

He's not prepared to face what Yuuri Katsuki holds for him, though.

 

* * *

 

Now, Victor is not blind at all. He recognises beauty when he sees it and goddamn, Yuuri is kinda beautiful. Okay, he might consider him kind of very beautiful and exactly his type, but that would be unprofessional and that's the last thing he needs. He already isn't the most experienced coach, he doesn't also need a faint attraction to his skater to complicate things.

When attraction turns into affection, Victor decides to just ignore it and hope it will go away, eventually. In the meantime, there is no harm in admiring Yuuri's endless qualities, right?

The problem is that Yuuri is such a sweetheart even Victor – steady-as-rock, cold-as-ice Victor, who has somehow managed to keep his private life private and himself closeted for years – can't resist. Yuuri is a fast learner, ambitious, and so, so _unbelievably_ determined. He has a certain flame in his gaze that Victor recognises as the spark that can lead to success, but he doesn't have the self confidence to believe himself capable of it. And Victor can't resist a challenge.

That's why he decides to have him compete against the younger, wilder Yuri, who reminds him so much of himself at his age that he actually feels his chest hurting with nostalgia. It's not like Victor will actually leave: Yuuri has only a few years left, while Yurio has the golden years of his careers ahead of him, and he knows he will have time to follow both. He also knows how much of an incentive the prospective of abandon can be: that's why he introduces a challenge in the challenge itself. He might be playing dirty, offering them their ideal vision of themselves and then switching them up, but he's _almost_ sure he will make his point this way. There's a certain logic under his action: he prompts Yurio to live as a teenager should, carefree and happy and so differently from how he had lived; at the same time he tries to show Yuuri what he can be, what he is as soon as he lets his guard down.

He founds out that he's right, as he always is, and he ignores the warmth that settles just under his sternum when Yuuri begins to be more comfortable around him.

 

* * *

  

Victor grows to love Yuuri's home so much he doesn't even want to consider leaving, let alone actually doing so. Yuuri's family has begun talking in English when he's around, so that he won't feel left out: his parents' English is conversational at best, while his sister is formidably fluent, and they make it work. On the rare breaks they take (mostly on rainy Sunday mornings and warm Friday nights) Victor takes Japanese lessons. As soon as he uploads a photo of his practice books, along with Yuuri looming above it, his smile spread wide and blurry, Yurio comments something along the lines of _“What the hell are you doing?”_

He smiles as he reads the question – which is written in Russian, because Yurio is not _that_ evil – because he's well aware that he's shit at languages, but this is worth it. He snaps another picture of Yuuri, bent over in laughters as he completely destroys a word with his pronunciation, and sends it in a private reply. Yurio writes, this time in English, “disgusting” and “I'm blocking u”. He doesn't.

Anyway, Yuuri's family is so kind and loving and so resembling his own idea of family that he can't help the feeling of tenderness that spreads throughout his chest any time he joins them at dinner. One night Yuuri's mother, peaceful and calm as can be, turns to her son and informs him that his ex-boyfriend had showed up while he wasn't home.

Hell breaks loose. Yuuri chokes on his drink and sputters everywhere, while his face goes all the shades from fuchsia to outright scarlet; Mari starts crying from laughter. There's a quick exchange, fire-like, of Japanese words between Yuuri and his mother, and Yuuri becomes even more flustered as they talk, until he decides to just don't deal with this and he buries his face into his hands. His sister falls over the table, hugging herself in an attempt not to lose balance.

Victor doesn't get it at first, because the fumes of sake can confuse him a lot even though he's used to drinking. Later, when he's lying on his bed, still trying to figure it out, the pieces seem to fit together like a puzzle: the last time Yuuri left home was during the last Grand Prix, which means that his former boyfriend had disappeared from his life quite a long time ago (but if the thought of Yuuri with someone else makes Victor's chest clench, he surely doesn't want to name _that_ ). If his mother brought that up it means that there's something there, something Victor doesn't understand yet.

 

* * *

 

He discovers that the sea is beautiful, even when you can't swim in it because it's freezing outside. He almost considers suggesting moving their morning run there, but there's nothing to suggest when Yuuri decides to hide himself in his room and never talk to Victor again. Instead, Victor lets a few days go by – Yuuri's sister and Yuuko both say, “It's better if you wait” – and only then he knocks on his door, willing to drag him out kicking and screaming, if he has to.

Yuuri isn't kicking and screaming when he opens the door. He's messy, hair unkempt and glasses askew; he doesn't even ask him anything, just says, “Give me five minutes”, and closes the door after himself.

Victor feels nervous energy creep all over his body as he waits, and he thinks he's so stupid, being this anxious about something they do every day – except this is _not_ what they do every day: he makes Yuuri coffee, because why the hell not, hands him his mug without a word and then says that he just wants to take a walk, “Can we go to the sea, please?” And it's so unlike him to ask for something politely instead of demanding, and he knows Yuuri knows, but he has a certain light in his eyes he can't recognise, and goddamnit does he want to.

They sit together, Makkachin happily strolling along them, and the silence is fine until it's not. They turn towards each other at the same moment, which is kind of cute, and Victor wants to say, _let me in. I want to know you, I want to know each and every thought, each and every curve of your body, please, please._ Instead he asks him how he's doing, which is definitely stupid, and then he asks another question that's keeping him awake at night. “What do you want me to be to you?”

Yuuri's eyes widen, his expression so open and sincere Victor feels his own mask of tranquillity crumble to ashes. He can't even imagine – he doesn't dare to imagine – how desperate he must seem as he suggests, voice steadier than he'd ever thought it would be, that he could be Yuuri's boyfriend, would Yuuri want to.

He doesn't even know where this thought came from, when the attraction turned into _something_ , yet he says it.

If he wasn't dying inside he would laugh at Yuuri's indescribable expression: he's starting to understand his reactions and he can't help but feel a little bit proud. Yuuri panics, then panics some more, stuttering out sounds that aren't even words; just as Victor starts to believe he's done the biggest mistake he could ever do, he hears his voice – not steady, not sure, but so damn present and real – stating that he doesn't want Victor to be something to him, he wants Victor to be _Victor_.

Looking back at it, that might be the first time Victor had felt the urge to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

Saying Victor is distressed when Yuuri gets to the Cup of China is an understatement. He has seen Yuuri anxious, and he has seen him victorious: the two things don't often match. Maybe this time they can – maybe this time they will – but Victor's not going to risk it. He's actually quite angry at him, even if he's aware he shouldn't be, because this is not Yuuri's fault: he knows that feelings can stray, sometimes, that anxiety of all things is difficult to keep at bay, he's been through all of this before and he has worked hard to get through it. At first, when he had heard about Yuuri's attitude in competitions, he had kind of wished to help him, to fix him – now he sees that he _can't_ , because Yuuri is not like him, he could never undergo the regimen Yakov had put upon his shoulders at the time, and because there's nothing to fix at all, Yuuri is perfect just as he is, with his trembling voice and blushing cheeks and – god, he has to keep out those thoughts if he wants to be of any help.

Yuuri's short programme is flawless. He can skate it with his eyes closed, while sleeping, whenever: he can skate it with such passion Victor is almost sure he will die as soon as he sees him, full costume on and hair slicked back. He recognises the feeling settled deep in his stomach, tugging relentlessly, which appears every time he sees Yuuri on the ice; the problem is that, nowadays, it's always there and it refuses to go away, but Victor ignores it. He's already biased as a coach, because whenever Yuuri skates he can't help but notice all the little things that make him perfect in such an alternative way to formal perfection. He doesn't need this kind of distraction as well. He's somehow convinced he can resist, but his heart doesn't seem to agree: it's pure instinct that makes him move his hand on top of Yuuri's as soon as he notices it's trembling. Then Yuuri surprises him: he intertwines their fingers, bring their heads closer, and Victor is so entranced that, when Yuuri asks – orders – him to never look away from him, he almost replies something along the lines of _no shit_.

 

* * *

 

He makes the naïve mistake of believing that the free skate will go along just as smoothly as the short program. Victor, so determined in thinking as less as he can about his own feelings for Yuuri, does the crude mistake of ignoring Yuuri's feelings as well. It's no wonder that he doesn't sleep, that he breaks down: he should have known beforehand. He should have put Yuuri's mental health first, but he doesn't realise it until he has a desperate, crying Yuuri in front of him and he discovers that he can't do anything at all, that he's just so _useless_ , always so worthless when he has to get so close to someone else's feelings. He says that much, but Yuuri doesn't seem to be listening. He also offers to help, which could be a good thing, if he didn't offer to kiss him: he understands the idiocy of his words as soon as they leave his mouth, but Yuuri's presence makes his mind foggy and stupid. He bites his tongue, thanking whatever god is listening when Yuuri, not even sparing a glance at him, states that _that isn't the point_. He says – voice raw from the tears – that he just needs Victor to believe in him. Victor almost wants to ask, “Don't you see I always do?”, but once again, that isn't the point. He comes to a decision.

They had spent whole evenings talking about Yuuri's free skating: Victor wanted this program to be _his_ way to fly. Yuuri, ever so insecure, had protested at first. It had taken several sessions of brainstorming, both of them spread over his little bed, Yuuri always touching Victor of his own accord - his head resting on his chest, perhaps, or his hand on his thigh, or their whole sides touching, once even their fingers intertwined. Then Yuuri had said, "This is not about my life, this about myself seen through the eyes of love". He had shot Victor such a poignant look he had almost felt himself blush; then they had played Yuri on Ice again, Yuuri listening with his eyes fixed on the wall before him and Victor watching him, always watching him.

It's that last word that resonates within him, rolling on Yuuri's tongue with that slight accent even Detroit couldn't erase, when Yuuri changes the routine. Victor sees him fly, and for the first time he doesn't think about how similar to him he was, because he wasn't: he had never skated like this, giving himself over to someone else so freely. Yuuri does a quadruple flip, something that they never even discussed attempting, and he gets the rotations in. Victor doesn't see the fall, that's what makes him such a bad coach, that he doesn't _ever_ really see the fall: he sees Yuuri, and he doesn't even dare meet his eyes. Something churns and boils deep inside him. He had said to himself he wanted to discuss, wanted to talk themselves out from this mingle of feelings. Talking seems overrated, even useless, because now he's aware that Yuuri knows: he must have seen how strong, how true and inevitable Victor's feelings are. Victor considers ice language his native tongue, and it's like he hears the words being whispered over and over, making his body tremble even if what he has in mind is nothing more than a mere echo of Yuuri's voice.

He's running, and he just _knows_ that Yuuri will be there to meet him. Yuuri is always there, smiling sure and firm, and it makes Victor's blood boil in his veins. It makes him so in love he can't think straight. So Victor launches himself at him, going in for a kiss, and their lips brush and fit together so perfectly that if they weren't on international TV, if they weren't already falling on the ice, he would probably never part from him. But he has to, so he hides his blushing face in the crook of his necks. When he pulls back, Yuuri's eyes are so fond that they feel like a promise.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor gets nervous halfway through the night. Yuuri had fallen asleep as soon as he had lain his head on the pillow, mustering just enough strength to pull on Victor's sleeve and ask him, voice thin from exhaustion, "Stay". Victor complies, because he couldn't ever deny him anything. He gets under the cover, pulls him closer so that Yuuri is using his chest as a pillow. He doesn't sleep, he _can't_ sleep, not with the way his lips still tingle from their kiss. He thinks he's messed up: that was the worst first kiss in history, all teeth and need, ended before it could even start, on international television. Tomorrow there will be consequences: but tonight, all Victor can think of is how unfair he was to Yuuri. He shifts uneasily, feeling comforted and undeserving of the soft weight on his chest that manages to keep him grounded somehow. He falls asleep at some point, because even if his body isn't tired his mind is incredibly so.

He wakes up to a cold bed and for a moment he freaks out. The first thing he sees is Yuuri's phone, screen bright, flashing what seems to be eleven am at him. He hears the sound of the shower going, then there's silence; he isn't ready when Yuuri, flushed with humidity, wet hair pushed back and body covered by just a towel, appears in front of him. "Good morning", Yuuri chirps, but somehow he isn't looking directly at him, mostly at something just above his head. Victor feels cold, freezing. "I got you coffee".

"Thanks", says Victor, voice cracking and so rough. Now that he knows they will talk, everything else dawns on him: he needs to be alone. He needs to have his façade ready, if things won't go his way. "I'm going to shower, alright?"

Yuuri's eyes widen at the question, and he looks right at him for the first time in the morning, which is some kind of accomplishment.

He comes back to a still very undressed Yuuri, spread over the untouched covers of the other bed, fumbling with his phone. Victor's steps are as soft and as silent as those of a cat, but somehow Yuuri knows it's him: it's like he recognises the exact moment Victor's eyes are attracted to his body. Victor doesn't look away, though, because he's mesmerized by Yuuri's slightly tanned legs, almost entirely uncovered; Yuuri is usually so pudic it's an actual surprise to see him like this. _He keeps surprising me_ , Victor smiles at the thought, at the exact same moment Yuuri seems to have gathered enough courage and turns around.

“Are you done staring?” Yuuri asks, confident enough that he would trick Victor into believing he's actually cooled down, if it wasn't for the slight rosy tint to his cheeks. Nobody would catch that particular, but Victor sees him, all of him.

He sits on the bed, suddenly very aware that they are both wearing a towel each, but that outfit will have to do. Victor's lips move on their own accord as he says, “We should talk”, and, rushing, adds, “I'm sorry I kissed you like that”. He can feel Yuuri's head snapping up at him, even if he doesn't see it. “I promise you, I had a full speech ready and everything, but then you went and attempted a quad flip and I just-”. He stops to breathe in but Yuuri takes over, this time with a very wobbly voice, saying, “You- you had a speech ready. That's- what was it about? The speech?”

“Us”, Victor murmurs, low enough that Yuuri wouldn't hear it, weren't he so close. “If there's an us at all, that is”, he adds, and suddenly he finds his own hands very interesting. He zeroes in on them, trying not to think about what will happen if Yuuri says there is no them.

Shorter, warmer fingers find his and take ahold of them. They slide against each other in the calm quiet of the room surrounding them, until Yuuri seems to come to a decision and intertwines them. “Victor”, he breaths out. “Kiss me again”.

 

* * *

 

The problem is that he's not a fucking marble statue. He's human, flesh and bones, blood rushing through his veins and tasting like copper on his tongue, muscles straining after years of ice skating. He's so human it hurts, because people like him – people who want to be on top of the world – can't be human: that's what he always told himself, all those years, when he practised and practised until he couldn't stand on his feet any more. He can't be human because he must be perfect, and humans – fragile, breakable, fallacious humans – are oh so imperfect. He is not human on his best days, when he can skate whole routines all day long. He is not human when he wins and wins and wins, when his mother is not there to smile at him but his father is, not smiling, never smiling. He mustn't be human. That's what his father used to say. That's why he cut his hair – long hair is too bold a choice – and kept on skating even when his own body cried out for him to stop. Because he has learned not to be human.

Nowadays everything is so different. He doesn't wake up before the sun is up in the sky, in a cold, badly-lit bedroom; he doesn't have skating as his only goal, as his only occupation. Instead, now he wakes up with soft yawns muffled into silence, careful not to hit Yuuri – who always gets so close to him while they sleep – when he stretches. He's always up before him, so he gets to see him under the sunlight, curling up in a ball when Victor sticks his cold feet on his legs to wake him. He gets to see the gentle smiles and the barely there hugs Yuuri demands every morning, even though he's way too sleepy to give him an actual hug.

Afterwards, when they're on the skating rink, Victor actually feels the slightest bit of nostalgia clenching his stomach. Seeing Yuuri – his beautiful, amazing, mind-blowing Yuuri – skating with purpose and emotions soothes that deep-rooted ache in his bones, though. Everything is worth it to follow his movements, to help him blossom. Yuuri smiles at him from the other side of the rink and says, almost screaming, “Get here with me, skate with me!” and Victor obliges.

Victor is so in love it scares him. He feels the weight of Yuuri's breath on his skin even when they're at a distance; every time Yuuri smirks and calls him Vitya it's like his own body responds to the nickname, softening and opening up in a way that makes Yuuri rush to touch him in some way. At times, when they're lying in a bed too little for them, exchanging slow kisses and unrushed words, Victor thinks about saying out loud how much he loves him, but he never can. Yuuri understands – he always does.

It all goes to shit when they get to bed after a particularly tiring day. They're too exhausted to even kiss: they settle for lying together, Yuuri's head resting on Victor's chest, just above his heart, so that he can hear his steady heartbeat. Victor is scrolling through the news, which he still reads in Russian, before he freezes.

He doesn't know how he stumbles upon it. He doesn't even read it. He just glances at the title, attracted by the presence of his name, and feels the weight of reality crush him.

He hasn't thought about it in months – he's been keeping it out, the white noise of murmurs after the Cup of China, the voices in his own head, the years of lessons he has not yet entirely erased. He's been avoiding all of it because, fuck, he's not good at dealing with problems, especially when there isn't even a problem at all: because it isn't a problem, it shouldn't be a problem, love is never a problem, except it is, _it is._ Anger churns, burning like fire, filling his guts in horrible hot force; but there's guilt there, squeezing his lungs and keeping him stuck to the bed, there's guilt and disgust and fuck, he's losing it, he can't be losing it, he has been okay for so long, please, _please_ -

Yuuri's face swims in and out of focus as he sits up in front of him, without asking question, and Victor doesn't know if he's feeling better or worse now that he's in front of him. He loves this man so much- it's difficult even to breathe- he shouldn't love him, he will ruin him, this will ruin both of them- he feels like throwing up- Yuuri is mouthing something- even now, he feels the deep affection that pulls him towards him- he shouldn't- he takes his hand, reaching out like he's desperate, Yuuri squeezes hard, and it's not ideal, but at least it grounds him. The steady pressure makes the world spin the slightest bit less- blood rushes slower in his ears, it's not that deafening sound anymore- Yuuri's voice takes form, somehow, even through everything.

“Breathe”, Yuuri instructs. He starts counting, still anchoring Victor to the ground with his hand alone. Victor breathes in for seven seconds. Exhales for three. Again, and again, and again. Until the world stops spinning, or at least slows down, slow enough that he doesn't feel like throwing up anymore. Somehow – who knows when – he got up, sitting, and now he almost falls. Yuuri catches him. Of course he does.

They're silent for a while. Victor's forehead is pressed against Yuuri's collarbone, while Yuri's fingers soothingly stroke the nape of his neck. It feels like hours before Victor has the strength to turn his head so that he can borrow it even deeper into Yuuri's skin, trying to forget – it isn't healthy, it's how he got there in the first place, but he can't cope.

“Vitya”, Yuuri calls him, voice honey-sweet just above his ear. “Can you talk?”

Victor nods against his bones, then clears his voice, mumbles a soft “Yeah”. He can feel Yuuri's sigh.

“ _Vitya_ ”, calls Yuuri again, and this time Victor looks up. He must be a mess: his ears buzz, his eyes burn like he's been crying. Maybe he has. Who the fuck knows. “Darling, I'm sorry, but- if you want to- what triggered it?”. Everything – Yuuri's hesitation, the pet name, that _it_ at the end of the question – makes him want to cry. Victor knew Yuuri's mental health wasn't good as well, but he had not realised how not good it was.

“I- we-” Victor picks up his phone and shows him the article, with their photo under the title. Yuuri's eyes widen so much it hurts like a punch. It takes him a second to understand what he has done wrong: Yuuri can't read Russian, and there is only one conclusion he can come to. “It's not about us”, he states, sounding surer than he feels. He takes his hand, lifts it to his face; he leaves a kiss on the inside of his wrist. “It's about everyone else, it just- it's so much, Yuuri”.

Yuuri's expression is tinged of something so incomprehensible, so fleetingly painful. “I know”, he whispers, and Victor's mind goes off. _Of course he does, it's not like his country is better than yours, he's just as desperate, you ruined everything, god, why do you have to be so-_

Cold hands reach up, taking his chin and angling it up. “Vitya, for god's sake, don't zone out on me now”. Victor stares at him. His brown eyes burn with something that's deeper than sadness, deeper than desire. He can't point out _what_ it is. “I know- how hard it is. I do. I'm sorry”. He strokes his cheekbone with his thumb. Victor leans towards the warmth of his fingers. “I'm sorry that you have to go through this, and I- I can't tell you that everything will be okay.” Yuuri's voice strains, and Victor turns his head, kisses the palm of his hand. He tries to keep back the tears. “But we are here, you and I, and- and we can go through this together. We can try.”

Yuuri is crying. _Skater's heart are as fragile as glass_ , Victor knows this first-hand. There are tears on his own face, maybe, but he ignores them. He chases after Yuuri's lips, tries to catch his sadness in a kiss, tries to say everything he can't say yet. It doesn't matter if their tongues taste the salt, if Yuuri bats his eyelashes and teardrops fall on Victor's cheeks. Victor turns his head the slightest bit, replacing words with gestures, holding Yuuri like he's all that matters, and maybe he is.

 

* * *

 

When they're at the Cup of Russia, everything seems fine. Even though they're in Russia, words almost can't hurt them: they're strong, steady, and maybe Yuuri will do his best performance yet.

But then Yuuri is turning towards him and ordering him to go back, and it all falls on him like snow accumulated on a branch of a tree that breaks. He doesn't remember most of it: he gets back to blocking it all out, the feelings and the pain, because he won't be able to handle the situation otherwise.

He stays up until it's Yuuri's turn to skate, but he knows it will be hours before they can actually talk on the phone, so he just writes him a couple of texts. He writes, _well done, my love_ , then adds, as an afterthought, _i'm proud of you, i miss you._ He almost sends him a photo, but then he decides against it, worried that the puffiness in his eyes – caused by both lack of sleep and tears – will show through the screen, and he doesn't want to have Yuuri worried about him.

They are the hardest 48 hours in a while.

 

* * *

 

 

Victor warns him as soon as they get back to Hasetsu: “You have, like, this evening free, then we will resume training”, and the surprised look that Yuuri shoots him makes him chuckle.

It's good to be back home, even though Yuuri is so overwhelmed and tired he just wants to close himself in his bedroom and sleep for the whole week; so Victor gasps when Yuuri takes his hand and tugs him along, taken aback by the sheer need in his eyes. They lie next to each other on Yuuri's little bed, as Yuuri talks and talks for hours: Victor would listen to him for all eternity, admiring the quiet rustle that is his voice in the middle of the night, the light that burns just behind his eyes.

“I was scared that I wouldn't make it”, whispers Yuuri at a certain point. “I got in by sheer luck, it was so- I don't even know how I feel about it”. There's something heavier that hangs behind his words, and Victor, who's still laughing about the face Yakov must have made when Yuuri hugged him, becomes serious and quiet. “Yuuri, you weren't at your best, that's alright. That happens to everyone. But you didn't panic, you tried at least, and now- now it's the time to make everything better. I'm proud of you.” Yuuri blushes under the quiet words of praise. It's obvious he doesn't want to talk about it anymore, but he turns around and giggles as he recalls what happened with Yuri after the competition. Victor snatches his phone and sends him a text in Russian, writing something along the lines of “Have you finally accepted us as our parents?”. Yuri replies in English, with a simple “fuck off”, and Yuuri demands to have the question translated.

They are tired, almost outright exhausted, but neither of them wants to sleep. They just want to stay together, making up for all the hours they were separated, and as Yuuri voices this Victor laughs and says, “I'll still be here in the morning”. Yuuri – who's sprawled himself completely on top of his boyfriend – raises his head so that their eyes meet and, linking their hands, asks with a reverent voice, “Were you serious?”

“About what?”, Victor replies, because they've said so much it feels like his head it's going to burst. But then he knows, he just does, because Yuuri blushes deeply and his hand squeezes just a little tighter, eyes bright even in the dark, unlit room. “About the proposal thing” is all that Yuuri's mind can put together, and Victor feels warmth spread all over his body as well, dusting his cheeks. Yuuri is so surprised to see that happen that he bends his head down to leave a kiss on his cheekbone. “What do you think?”, teases Victor, hands looming above his hips. “I don't know what to think”, Yuuri admits, shivering when he feels Victor's thumb slipping under his shirt, stroking over bare skin. “Okay, let's put it another way. What if I were serious?” Victor's heart thumps in his ears. “Someday, later- after- it would be great”. Yuuri doesn't even feel embarrassed at the declaration. He searches Victor's lips with purpose, kisses him sweet and sure. “Then I'll remember to ask you”, says Victor with a completely straight face, and Yuuri can't help but chuckle. “I want the proper thing though”, he remarks, pecking his lips once again. “Of course you do”, Victor replies, giving way to his own laughter.

 

* * *

 

If there's one thing Victor wants Yuuri to know, it's that they can talk, on and off the ice. It should almost go unsaid, it should be obvious, but he knows that sometimes coaches don't actually embrace all the communication shit: now he understands why, because there's an instinct pulling deep down in his guts, yet Yuuri seems to want to make him go mad.

“I'm just saying”, he repeats for what must be the millionth time, balancing on the rink, “that I've almost mastered the Eros routine, while I almost fucked up the Yuri on Ice one. That's what I should be focusing on, right? The Grand Prix is not that far”. He is making a point – he is right – but there's _something_ that won't work, and Victor just knows.

“Look, Yuuri, I-” Victor pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He inhales, exhales, trying to calm down. “Okay, follow me”. Yuuri seems to be standing just the slightest bit steadier. “How do you feel after the Eros routine?”

“Victor, what-”

“C'mon, answer me”.

“It makes me feel-” Yuuri exhitates. He breathes in and looks away, above Victor's shoulder. “Powerful. Sure. Like I'm the most beautiful person in the room.”

Victor bites his bottom lip, keeping it from curving into a grin and swallowing back a comment, something along the lines of _but you are the most beautiful person in the room_. “Exactly”, he says instead, “so trust me on this. Try to do the Eros routine, then I want you to try all the quads”.

Yuuri looks at him like he's actually gone mad. “All of them?”

Victor nods, repeating, “Trust me”.

Yuuri gets all the jumps right for the first time in his life, except for the quadruple salchow that makes him wobble a little at the end and fall on his butt. Victor is immediately skating towards him with a bottle of water in his hands, which Yuuri, delighted, accepts. He drinks it all in a gulp, then he beams up at him.

“You were beautiful”, Victor says as he helps him get up again. Yuuri leans against him, all tired limbs and aching muscles, and Victor continues, “We can stop here if you want. Call in early. You've just come back from a competition after all.”

Only then does Yuuri blush, for the first time of the day, and retorts, “Actually, I wanted to skate to Eros another time before we leave-”

Victor raises an eyebrow at him, and somehow that makes him blush even deeper. “Just for the fun of it?”, he asks teasingly, and Yuuri smirks as he replies, “Yeah, or something like that”.

Victor should be used to it – to him – by now, but he isn't. Good god, he isn't _at all_. He watches him with the same urgency he felt the first time he'd seen him, when he still had to act like he was unbiased and deciding for the better skater. Yuuri is so different now: then, in full costume and all, he still was just sheepishly acting the part of the seductress. Now, even in his large, worn out work out clothes, he _is_ the seductress that's reaching for her new lover; Victor feels weak every time Yuuri's eyes link with his, knowing well enough that he has him wrapped around his fingers. He blows him a kiss – again – and Victor almost stops him right there, dying with want. He can't understand how he does it, because he's not actually this much preoccupied about the performance itself, but Yuuri manages to end just opposite to him, drawing him in with the last movements of his arms. He watches him with his chin raised up as the music ends, or better, as the music should end: there's no music but Victor has heard it anyway, because Yuuri's body seems to create music every time he gets on the ice, and Victor wants to scream out loud in frustration as Yuuri shoots him a grin.

He doesn't know how it happens, it just does, and suddenly Yuuri is so close he can feel the heat radiating off his skin as he whispers filthy nothings in his ears and Victor fumbles for their stuff, dying to get home as soon as they can.

 

* * *

 

They've been far from each other for so long Victor can't think straight as Yuuri, who somehow still has some sense in his brain, makes sure that they are alone at home. It's not long before they're in his bedroom, door well shut for good measure – Yuuri hits his back against it with a loud thump as Victor cages him into his arms, kissing him with way more passion than before. He drags his lips all the way down to his jaw, biting there, then he traces the lines of his tendons – Yuuri whines, clenching his hands – and finally kisses his way around his troath, occasionally licking at his skin, still slightly salty with sweat. Yuuri gets his hands around his body, manages to raise both his sweater and his shirt before getting them on the little of his back and bringing him in, eyes closed to the warmth of Victor's mouth. He strokes his hands up his back, then brings them on his chest and traces all the way down, ending just above his pants. That seems to do something to Victor: he lets go of his hips and hails him up, so that Yuuri's legs are crossed behind his back, raises him even higher against the door as he growls in his mouth. Yuuri supports himself with one hand on his shoulder and tangles the other in his hair, pulling just enough that he knows he will feel it. He smirks when Victor bites back a moan and pulls back, watching him with dark, hungry eyes that make him tingle all over. “Bed”, he orders, but before Victor can actually move he adds, “Kiss me”, then he pulls him in and kisses him anyway, which has Victor losing a beat and Yuuri biting down on his bottom lip.

Victor grins at him while he brings him across the room. “Someone's bossy today”, he says, while he moves on pure instinct, too busy staring into Yuuri's eyes. “You love it”, pants Yuuri, and Victor feels himself grow harder and somehow hotter, like the whole room's filled with fire, and he goes, “Maybe I do”. Then he throws him down on the bed with no grace at all, because who's got time for that, sliding his hands up his legs and ruffling Yuuri's shirt while his body chases his touch, arching off the bed for him. Victor bends down and kisses him forcefully, drinking in Yuuri's moans with an indescribable urge, before moving down to his neck to bite and suck there until wonderful purple blossoms beneath his skin. His hands move of their own accord, finding Yuuri's belt and unbuckling it before sliding his pants and his underwear down, and the rough friction of Victor's pants – who are still on him – against his naked skin shocks Yuuri right back into the moment. He scrambles to sit up, pulling at Victor until he lets him turn them around. There are so many emotions going through Victor's face that Yuuri actually laughs as he straddles him, still half-dressed, and only then Victor falls back on the mattress and practically invites Yuuri to have his wicked way with him.

“Vitya”, murmurs Yuuri into the silence of the room, and Victor actually arches into his touch, looking almost as surprised as Yuuri feels. He gets his hand under his clothes and strips him, layer after layer, mumbling something about _how can you get cold here, you're Russian._ Victor chuckles and kisses him, fondness pouring from his lips, and Yuuri lets himself get lost into his mouth for whole minutes before he gets back to the task at hand. Only when Victor is left in just his boxers he pulls back, hovering him as Victor's thumbs press into his hips and he whispers, “Your shirt”. Yuuri makes a show of stripping of the simple piece of clothing left on his body, well aware that Victor is mesmerized by his movements. “Yuuri, fuck”, is the comment that does it. He bends over Victor's body, reaching for the drawer as he distantly feels Victor asking him what he intends to do. Yuuri doesn't reply, he just sprawls all over him, murmuring into his ear, “Don't take your eyes off me”.

He tosses the condom and the lube on the sheets, happily welcoming the stream of Russian curses that rolls off Victor's mouth as he understands what he's about to do. He looks up at him expectantly, searching for some kind of validation which isn't hard to find – from Victor's glazed eyes to his flushed chest to the outline of his cock, Yuuri senses his want so strongly it makes his head spin. He starts prepping himself, only the slightest bit embarrassed at the loud sounds in the quiet room, and he's halfway through a moan when he links eyes with Victor and says, “You can touch me, you know?”

And suddenly Victor is all over him and neither of them can think straight anymore. Victor's boxer are somehow discarded, and before he can even understand that that's really happening Yuuri is already sinking down on him, eyes clenched shut and body tensing at the intrusion, while Victor nips at his collarbones and keeps him steady. Yuuri murmurs, broken English and trembling voice, that he wants to set the pace, so Victor lets himself fall back over the cool sheets. Yuuri's body is just so perfect above him, and his own hands don't seem to be able to stay still, so he touches him everywhere he can and just lets himself feel. At some point, Yuuri lets himself fall forwards, braces himself with a hand on Victor's chest and moans out loud, shaking so badly that his head drops against Victor. Victor's lips leave a kiss where he manages to reach – just beneath his chin – and he arches up to meet his trusts, all the while murmuring his name in desperate breaths. Then Yuuri whimpers, louder than he should, “Vitya, _Vitya_ ”, and something in his voice makes Victor's grip tighter around his body, then he lets out, halfway through a plea and an order, “Touch me”, and Victor obliges, feeling like he's going to burst himself.

Yuuri cries out his name in bliss and Victor sees actual constellations as soon as he closes his eyes against the sensations.

 

* * *

 

Victor wakes up at the feeling on Yuuri's cold hands and feets sticking respectively on his chest and legs, and he almost cries out in warning. He's welcomed by an eruption of laughters, which makes his pout and turn around.

“Victor, we'll be late”, says Yuuri, whose hands are still on him: now he's hugging him from behind, which would have been a beautiful way to wake him, ten times better than freezing limbs under the warmth of their covers.

“I'm getting up”, Victor assures him while he sinks deeper in the pillow. He closes his eyes again because whatever hour it is it's still way too early, or at least his body thinks it is, so that's it. He's sleeping in this morning, thank you very much.

“Vitya, we have the GP tonight”, adds Yuuri, patiently, like he's talking to a kid. “Yeah, what about it?” mumbles the older man against the sheets, yawning. “We can sleep for, like, the whole day”.

“We could sleep for the whole day if we hadn't scheduled breakfast with the others”.

“And who did that?”

“I did, but you were with me when-”

“Exactly, so you go. I'll wait for you. Here.”

“C'mon!” Yuuri smacks a kiss on the nape of his neck.

“We could stay in this bed the whole morning. You and I.” Victor is sure it wouldn't be such a bad way to pass the time.

“No, we cannot. Yura is already waiting for us, he just texted me.”

“Do we have to?”

“Yes, we do.”

“And you can't go alone because-”

“Because I don't want to leave you alone, and because you're my boyfriend, and my coach, and I love you, so get your ass up and dressed.”

“You can't play the 'I love you' card every time you want something.”

“Whatever you say, darling. Sweatpants or jeans?”

“Put on the black jeans.”

“Oh, so you _are_ getting up!”

They reach the main hall after everyone's already gathered there. Victor smiles as Yuuri practically launches himself at Phichit, startling him out of his social media-induced coma; his smile grows even wider once Yuri, who had been frowning at the floor, greets him in Russian. Victor uses the same language to reply to him, allowing himself to fuss over his well-being, adding a little _son_ at the end of the phrase that makes Yuri blush so wildly Victor actually laughs. Yuri shoves him and, even though Victor doesn't actually lose balance, he moves so that he practically ends up in Yuuri's arms. He flails for the slightest moment, and after a second he rolls his eyes at the ceiling, pulling Victor upright – ignoring Victor's comment about how strong and chivalrous he is – and heading out the hotel.

They spend the morning talking technicalities: Phichit and Yuuri compare their programs while Yuri estranges himself, eyes fixed on the hot chocolate he's not drinking. For a while Victor just stares fondly at his boyfriend's excited face, but it doesn't take him long to notice that something is wrong with Yuri. It's so not him at all to comfort people, that is mainly Yuuri's job, Victor doesn't do well with emotions. But all the time he has spent with Yuuri has turned him into a different, softer, _better_ version of himself, so he leans forward and asks, talking in Russian: “Yura, what's wrong?”.

Yuri startles out of his contemplation and for a split second Victor can read so many emotions in his eyes it actually hurts. Yuri still reminds him of a younger version of himself: lonely, angry at the world, always good but never the best. He's not sure if those maternal feelings started as he had decided to symbolically adopt him or if they were there even before, but he lets Yuri ramble in Russian something about his granddad not feeling well and not being there to see him perform and only when he seems to be very close to tears he interrupts him, saying, “Yuratchka, I'm going to hug you and you better not run away”.

Yuri, being Yuri, is almost up and running at the exact moment Victor finishes speaking, but Yuuri – without batting an eye, so steadfast and stoic Victor feels himself falling in love a little bit harder – who may not understand Russian but who has heard it enough from Victor to recognise Yuri's pet name and the word _hug_ , stops him soon enough that Victor can actually hug him. And if they become a pile of hugging people, and if Yuri's eyes are red and teary when they pull back, no one mentions it.

 

* * *

 

Just before the competition begins Phichit steals Victor away for a moment and tells him, worry visible in the set of his mouth, “Look out for Yuuri, will you?”

Victor replies “I will”, but Phichit is already skating away.

Yuuri is going last, which is what worries Victor the most. He will have to keep him occupied – and he has to say that their friends help with that. At first, there are Celestino and Phichit who call him over to relive some old memories of theirs. Victor insists that he has to listen too, and he almost splutters when Yuuri prefers sitting on his lap than on the completely empty sofa; he sees him become redder and redder as they talk about his past in Detroit. Phichit has so many stories about their time at college, and the photographic proofs to match: when Yuuri seems flustered enough Victor decides to pepper his neck with kisses, which makes him squirm and giggle.

Then it's Yakov who turns to them, and he admits that Victor is not that bad of a coach, even if he's stubborn, he could have done at least another year of skating, and he's still naive and _don't think I agree with your choices, young man_. His voice is fond, though, so Victor pulls Yuuri closer to him and Yuuri chuckles as both Yakov and Victor shower Yuri in advices; he just pulls him into a hug, again, and this time Yuri doesn't even blush.

Then they're left alone: everyone else is out, Yuuri will go in last, and Victor circles him with his arms and kisses his way up from his neck to his cheekbone. “How are you feeling?”, he asks; Yuuri closes his eyes against the tenderness of the question, pulls his head back so that it rests on his shoulder. “I'm nervous”, he breathes out as he opens his eyes again. “That's okay, love”, he whispers against his neck. “That's normal, that's healthy. Do you need anything?”

“No, I-” Yuuri turns around and kisses him, deep and intense, panting slightly when he pulls back. “This is all I need”. He turns around in his arms, faces him. Victor's breath is warm against his forehead. “Just, don't ever take your eyes off me”.

“How could I?”

 

* * *

 

 _They have a problem_. Victor says so out loud when, after hours spent confronting the press, Yuuri pulls him along until they find a toilet far enough from the rink it almost feels intimate. To be honest, it's a miracle they had even managed to get dressed for press and to go through that much time without touching each other. Yuuri huffs at his words, traps him against the door. “It's your fault – I will do all the work, don't worry”, he says, devilishly sure of himself. “You just need to stay there and look pretty.”

“I should be the one doing the work, here”, replies Victor, half-heartedly. “I am the coach”, he adds at Yuuri's inquisitive gaze, pouts a little when he hears him laugh. “Yeah, right”, giggles out the other, before he gets even closer. Victor embraces him without even thinking, holding him with an arm around his back and a hand on his hip. Yuuri slides his own hands on his chest, biting his lips when their gazes meet. “Victor, that's exactly the point. You're my coach, it's also thanks to you if I'm here. We're celebrating.”

Yuuri's gaze burns; under it, though, there is a feeling so genuine Victor almost feels like crying. He will have the confidence, maybe, one day, to just give in to tears while he's with him. But that's not the case right now, not when he has his pliant, warm body pressed against him. “Can I kiss you?” Yuuri doesn't even waste time nodding; he moves forward, the slightest bit, and Victor follows him like he used to follow music, like it's something so innate that he doesn't even have to think about it. They kiss, short and sweet; Yuuri pulls back first, breathing delicately on his lips, murmuring, “Victor, please”.

Victor doesn't deserve him, with his hair slicked back and his tender grin. He will never deserve him. “I just-” He closes his eyes, presses his forehead against the other's. “I just want _you_ ”.

He should have seen it coming. It's not unlike Yuuri, not anymore: yet it still surprises him enough to kick the breath out of his lungs, make him feel like he's an exploding supernova. He feels his insides burning as Yuuri's smile changes slowly, going from fond to definitely lewd, making him weak in his knees. This is Yuuri in his Eros' costume, except they're not on the ice and Yuuri is not even near his costume, because after all this is just _Yuuri_ , and Victor feels his chest implode. “Well, that's fortunate”, declares Yuuri before dropping on his knees and _ouch, that must hurt,_ thinks Victor, even though it does make quite a scene, if his own hard-on is anything to go by.

Yuuri is a fucking tease, so beautiful and erotic and obscene, and Victor would be lying if he said that he isn't a little proud. He is mostly incredulous, though, because he should be the one worshipping him – he doesn't deserve him, especially not like this, kneeling in front of him like he's praying, like there's no one else in the world but them – “Stop, Vitya”, Yuuri smiles, whispering, and leans forward to unzip his pants. _Tease._ “Stop going on whatever tangent you are”. His voice is just a little lower, just a little breathier, or is it just Victor's imagination? And then Yuuri, marvellous, surprising Yuuri, pulls down both his pants and his underwear in one single pull. “And keep your eyes on me”, he ends, his words vibrating against the skin of his crotch, and Victor feels himself being resurrected and sent to heaven.

Yuuri's lips are slow and steady, not even once straying from their path, much to Victor's disappointment. It's like they're skating in complicate lines, first from his hip to his thigh, then to his thigh to his navel, then finally – _finally_ – where Victor wants them. Even then, Yuuri is teasingly slow, tracing a path of kisses up to the tip and down again. Maybe it's a plot to make him lose his mind; he knows for sure he's right when Yuuri looks up at him, warm brown eyes shimmering in wonder and amusement. Victor doesn't _dare_ closing his eyes. Instead, he places his hand in the messy mop that Yuuri's hair has become and lets himself unravel until the only word in his vocabulary is _Yuuri_ , hummed sweetly as he comes.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri wakes him up in the middle of the night, as he drapes himself closer to him under the covers. Victor doesn't see the light of the sun and he doesn't even want to think about what hour it must be: he just cuddles him with more purpose, stroking the warm, pliant skin of Yuuri's hips with his hand, hearing his irregular breathing just below his neck.

“Yuuri, you should sleep”, he mumbles, voice slurred with sleep in the darkness of their room.

“I know. I know, it's just that- Victor, I'm going to win.”

Victor searches for his eyes in the dark and he's almost sure he's found them, but he can't read his face. “I'm gonna be proud of you anyway it goes”, he tries. “I'm gonna stay with you no matter what”. The words bubble up from beneath his ribs. They've been there for so long, always on the tip of his tongue, ready to be translated in actions but never spoken out loud.

Yuuri leaves a soft kiss on his collarbone. “I know now”, he assures him, “and I also know I'm going to win”.

Victor smiles so bright and wide that his face hurts. “I'm glad to hear that, Душа моя”.

 

* * *

 

It's the last beat of Yuri on Ice that does it.

Victor feels the tears stream down his face, warmth burning his freezing skin, latching like fire on his cheeks. He can't help it: Yuuri has done it – he hears in the roar of the crowd, the roam in his own chest, the exhausted bow with which Yuuri salutes his fans. He has managed to convey all of himself in his perfect, amazing routine. He has written stories in his amazing jumps, he has shown everyone who he is now, who he was. How he has become so perfect, so wonderful.

He almost forgets about everyone else – the cameras and the skaters and the actual score itself – as Yuuri skates toward him so fast he will probably hurt himself, not even speaking, just grinning at him. It makes Victor's heart swell in his chest. Yuuri, eyes so blown out in the momentum, so wide and sparkling and threatening to bring him down, gets his face in between his hands and kisses him, an actual kiss, that makes Victor pull him closer and enjoy his hurried breath directly blown on his lips.

Yuuri doesn't ask how he's done, because he knows. He knows because the crowd is still cheering, and he hears a couple of his friends screaming, but Victor thinks he should tell him anyway, after all it's his job, as his coach. He pulls the slightest bit away, doesn't argue when Yuuri's cold hands stay still on his cheeks. He pulls up his own arms so that he can link his own hands behind his neck, and he says, low and unhurried, “It was perfect- you were perfect- I loved it so much- I love you, god, Yuuri, I love you so much”.

Yuuri's smile widens even more and it warms him up like the sun, scattering all the clouds away. Victor feels amazed that he's even still there, that he hasn't melted from the intensity in his gaze. Yuuri pulls him in again. “Yeah”, he laughs in his ear. “I love you too, Vitya”.

 

* * *

 

Later – much later – they find themselves at a ridiculously expensive restaurant, sitting with the other winners. Yuuri happily slides in the seat next to Phichit's, who's still wearing his silver medal above his shirt. Victor takes the seat next to him, which has him sitting in front of Yakov; he feels uncomfortable for half a minute before his former coach begins talking to him in rapid Russian, which is just about acknowledged by Yuri, who turns his head at his coach the slightest bit before he sees who's sitting in front of him. “God, no”, he murmurs with a definitely too loud tone, which makes Yuuri grin like a madman. “C'mon, Yuratchka, you know you love me!” he exclaims, overlooking both Yuri blushing at the nickname and Phichit erupting in laughters. “Why haven't you updated Instagram?”, he continues, raising an eyebrow, and Phichit almost manages to behead both of them when he pulls them in, attempting to snap a selfie with them.

At a certain point, when everyone's gone through most of their dinner, Phichit turns to Yuuri and asks him, “What are you gonna do now?” and Yura perks up, leaning forward to hear his answer. Yuuri shrugs, opening his arms in a defeated gesture, and replies, “I actually don't know. I guess we'll see, there are so many decisions to make now”.

Phichit doesn't let the last part of his phrase go, though, and he remarks, “I guess you've already made a decision”. Victor can feel the material weight of three pairs of eyes set on him, and if he doesn't blush right then he does once Yuuri says, “Yeah, I guess I have”, and Yura makes a sound like he's puking.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this was an emotional rollercoaster, wasn't it?  
> you can scream with me about yoi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis) or [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/)!


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